Finding Freedom
by Wishes and Words and Etcetera
Summary: An elite boarding school, glamorous, and home of the most delinquent rich kids in the whole of the United States, is going to get six new students that will forever change the lives of everyone who lives there. AH AU. Normal pairings.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Okay, this is again, very random. It is supposed to take place over the entire school year, with alternating POVs between all the major characters, Alice, Jasper, Edward, Bella, Emmett, Rosalie. We'll see how well I do on that :). I wrote Alice's chapter to Fall Out Boy. Each character has their own band, and it will pretty much be the tone of that chapter. The fact that I wrote Alice to Fall Out Boy, shows that she is not going to be a regular Alice…

Disclaimer: Stephenie owns them all, not me.

**Finding Freedom**

Newly cropped ebony hair bobbed in her reflection, wet and sticking in every direction. It framed a small face, her tiny features twisted into a scowl. She stared at her foreign reflection, completely different than the glamorous girl with a curtain of black and blond hair she had been just a few minutes ago. Her hair was in a heap in one of the master bathrooms. If she had thrown it away, her parents most likely wouldn't notice the change.

She was wearing, to her absolute horror, a white blouse, tucked into a navy skirt, topped off with a navy and gold cardigan and white knee highs. Her scowl deepened as she surveyed the damage. She plucked at the large pocket of air in her blouse, where her breasts were supposed to fill. Everything was too big, their smallest size one too large for her.

There was no way she was going to go out in public like this, she thought, never mind starting a new school dressed like a substandard version of the cookie cutter girls she imagined she would be immersed with.

She sighed, and looked at the other versions of this same outfit she would have as her only other clothing options for the next eight and a half months. If she wasn't kicked out by then, she could either go home, which her parents promised would only happen if she behaved, or she would be stranded at the school for the summer, taking a few optional courses in order to have the 'privilege' to stay.

There were short sleeved blouses for when it was warmer, another long sleeved one, with a more elaborate collar, a white polo shirt, for physical education, she guessed. There were large navy shorts, that reminded her of her grandmother's underwear, one more knee length skirt, two full length, and worst of all, a navy tartan dress, with a sailor's collar, for formal occasions.

She shivered. Life was going to be hell in clothes like that, even if they fit. She looked around the room, her eyes resting on her sewing machine and a large basket overflowing with scraps of expensive fabric, only a few of the things she would die at boarding school without. She thought about altering them, so they fit, but then came across a better idea.

She stripped off her clothes, laying them on her bed, like the rest of the monstrosities were. Standing in her underwear, she surveyed what she had to work with, picking up a knee length skirt to begin with. She placed it on the dressmaker's dummy her parents had bought her when she wrecked her third car escaping from the police.

She flipped on a switch, music playing instantly, as the lights dimmed everywhere but the circle where her sewing equipment were. Humming along to the bubbly music, she began to pin the skirt to the right size, and then thought about what she could do with it. Shorter was a must, so she pinned up the skirt, until it would end up halfway down her thigh.

She grabbed a roll of black lace, and pinned it to the bottom. She had an iron on jeweled skull, which was a joke gift from her sister, who knew it was definitely not Mary's style. She grabbed it, and held it just above the hem. Perfect.

She had a few other iron on gems, and decided to line the pockets in them. However, the navy blue of the skirt was overpowering, and she contemplated it for a few minutes before removing the lace and the jewels.

She quickly sewed the skirt into the right size, hemming it, and adding a pleat on the side to use up the extra fabric around the waist. She left off the jewels and the lace, placing it down gently once she was finished. She ran off into the dark corners of her room, digging through a drawer of art supplies, until she found what she was looking for. A jar of expensive gold fabric paint, which she used on a pair of shoes for a dance competition a few years ago.

She grabbed a paintbrush, and ran back into the spotlight. She put the skirt back on the dummy, it fitting perfectly. She unscrewed the stop of the paint, dipping in the paintbrush, scooping up a golden glob. With a flick of the wrist, she splattered the golden paint across the front of the skirt, the trail like a galaxy covering the blue.

She smiled, and continued to splatter paint until the power of the navy was obscured. She grabbed a hair dryer to help the paint dry quicker, knowing that she was leaving tomorrow, and she had an entire wardrobe to alter.

She ironed on the jeweled skull, amazed at the quality of the paint. It moved with the fabric, and seemed like a part of the skirt. She supposed expensive really did mean high quality sometimes. She sewed the lace on the hem of the skirt, and then inspected her work.

No longer a vomit worthy, knee length, navy monster, it seemed like something she would actually wear. She was proud of herself, and placed it on the bed, watching how it stood out from the others, imagining that would be like how she would stand out in the school.

She grabbed the next skirt, already planning to add tulle underneath, to make it near the ballet skirt she prized, a handmade skirt by an unknown Italian designer, a particular friend of hers.

She added lace, shortened skirts, added a deep v neck to a few of the shirts, adding a lacy turtleneck to one of the short sleeved blouses. She turned one of the long skirts onto a strapless dress, and turned the other into tight pants. She spent the rest of the afternoon, and the whole night altering, changing, and splattering paint on her new clothes. She grabbed a few tank tops from her closet, ripping heart shaped holes in them, and then sewing them back up with patches of see through lace, or extra fabric.

When she was finally finished, the sun had risen again. She stiffly pulled on the makeshift dress made from the navy skirt, sliding white lace tights underneath, the white only a shade or two lighter than her skin. She stepped into peep toe silver ankle boots, and put on a chunky black necklace. Stepping in front of her full-length mirror, she felt a rush of pleasure.

She twirled, marveling at how the dress hit at the exact right place, and skimmed over her thin body, making her seem as if she had curves. Her hair had dried in the absolute chaos she had left it in, crowning her tired face with complete wildness. She looked good. She looked like she would stand out. She looked almost dangerous.

She held back a giggle, turning to leave. She took off her clothes again, putting on comfortable pajamas. She folded up all the extra clothes she had created; putting them in the designer suitcase with all the other things she had packed the day before. She ran to her sewing table, grabbing a few essentials. A few spools of navy and black thread, a few needles, a handful of stick on gems.

She placed them in a small satchel, and put them in her luggage. She surveyed her room. Everything she loved would stay here. She would be able to bring her iPod, her favorite slippers, and her phone, which was empty of the people she would want to contact. Everything else stayed behind.

She grabbed a black notebook, and a few pens, and shoved it in her bag. She would be able to shop for school supplies and toiletries there, but under surveillance, thanks to her parents' special request.

Glancing at the clock, she saw she had two hours before she had to wake up, at nine. She turned the lights on everywhere in her room, the music system still playing the same songs on repeat. She skipped over to her fridge, holding only carrots and energy drinks. She downed a red bull, and grabbed a handful of pre-cut carrots. She opened the sliding door to her elaborate bathroom, which she had designed by herself.

She slid into the shower, the water hot, feeling good on her skin. She squeezed out too much shampoo, not quite used to the small amount her shortened hair would need. The calming scent of jasmine soon reached her nose. She closed her eyes, the excess shampoo dripping down her face as she worked her hair into a lather.

A pounding came from her door, before it slid open, revealing her little sister, Cynthia. "Mary!" Cynthia cried in anger and panic, "What did you do?!" She lifted up her hand, revealing a handful of long black hair mingled with blond strands.

Mary found herself not wanting to respond to her name. _Mary_. It was so plain, so empty. It might have fit the little girl blinded by wealth, unable to see the dysfunction of her family, her father's multitudes of affairs, but who she was now, who she had been turning into for the last four months, didn't fit that name. She thought about it for a little while as Cynthia's rage subsided into confusion.

"Mary?" Cynthia asked, placing the hair down with slight disgust, wiping her hands on the legs of her pajamas.

"Please don't call me that anymore," she said, contemplating what her new name should be. "Call me Alice instead," Alice said, picking her middle name as her new identity. It was christened on her in memory of her eccentric grandmother, who died while Mary was seven, ten years ago.

Cynthia rolled her eyes, missing the seriousness in Alice's voice.

"Fine, whatever. _Alice,_ what the hell did you do to your hair?!" Cynthia yelled, as Alice turned off the water, after rinsing her hair. So much for a relaxing last shower. She wrapped a towel around herself and stepped out, meeting her sister's incredulous gaze.

She tucked the end of the towel in, creating a makeshift dress, as she grabbed for a dollop of mousse. Alice wanted her hair to look like it did yesterday. As if she had stayed up all night, forgetting to brush it.

Cynthia's jaw dropped in awe. "You're hair… it's so short." She said, anger dissipating out of her voice.

"That's what usually happens when you cut it, Cynthia." Alice said, allowing an edge to creep into her voice, something that she had never done before.

Cynthia looked hurt, but reached her hand up to tentatively touch the spiky edge. When her fingers reached the point, she jerked them back, as if stung. A smug smile crept onto her face.

"Mom and Dad are going to be really angry with you." Cynthia said, her only threat the possible anger of their negligent parents.

Not very worried, Alice sighed. "It's my hair, Cynthia."

Cynthia fumed, her face turning red with anger before sticking her tongue out at Alice, and running out of the bathroom.

Alice turned to her reflection. The argument with Cynthia wiped out the buzz the energy drink had given her, and she had deep bags underneath her eyes, not only from staying up all night, but from being unable to have a proper nights rest for at least four months.

Her stomach grumbled, the carrots only awakened her hunger. She left her room, still wrapped in a towel, sneaking down a few flights of stairs to get to the kitchen on the main floor. Her bare feet made no noise on the lushly carpeted stairs, years of ballet and a low body mass helping her keep quiet. She didn't want to run into her parents until she was dressed in her new school uniforms, which her mother had exclaimed over, when they were shipped here. "They are just so darling, Mary! I can tell you are going to enjoy this new school." As if sending her to a boarding school was a gift, not the punishment for knowing more than she should.

She reached the main floor, and entered the Tuscan style kitchen. Everything in her house was immaculate, expensive, and a cover up for the rot in the souls of the people who lived here. _Except Cynthia,_ she corrected herself. At fourteen, Cynthia was still naive, innocent. Once Alice was gone, there would be nothing to stop her from becoming corrupted.

She grabbed a bagel, wanting to escape before anyone saw her, not waiting to toast it. She wanted water to wash the taste of red bull and carrots from her mouth, a terrible combination. As she crept over to the fridge to grab a bottle, she heard muffled whispers from the back door.

The voices were hushed, and then she heard the unmistakable wet sound of a sloppy kiss, and a girlish giggle. Alice's stomach dropped as she recognized the voice. Someone she never really thought about before, but knew. Someone from her Spanish class, a girl with bouncy brown curls, and perky breasts that Alice always envied. A girl, the same age as her, if not a few months younger. The back door closed with a sigh.

She felt like vomiting, and put the bagel down, to scurry out of the room. Her father walked in, catching her leaving.

"Mary?" he asked, his contemptuous voice lessened by shock. His few remaining hairs were in disarray, and his robe hung open, exposing fleshy thighs and a large gut. He peered at her, as if he wasn't sure it really was her, not wearing the glasses he usually did.

She didn't answer, leaving as quickly as possible. She ran up the stairs, still trying to be quiet, not wanting to wake her mother, who lied alone in an empty bed, dreaming about herself, self centered as always.

Alice collapsed on her bed as soon as she entered her room. She wondered if she should cry, but her eyes stayed dry. She looked at the ceiling, a domed roof, as she was in the very top floor of their superfluous mansion. She contemplated getting a mural painted up there, but then she remembered that she would be living in boarding school for her last year of school, and then she would be going to university, probably living in dorm. She might not be able to live here again.

Alice felt sad, and reached one arm out, grabbing a fistful of her satiny comforter. Silently, she said goodbye to her room, as her alarm went off, blasting the room full of a mechanical techno remix, before she hit the snooze button.

She sat up, running her fingers through her damp hair, causing it to stand on end once more. She was a bad person, she decided. The girl who's life had just changed for the worse was not what she was sad about. The fact that Cynthia is losing the only person who ever cared about her did not make her upset. She was sad to leave her sewing machine, her makeup, and her freedom.

She stared at the ceiling for a few more seconds, until she felt the bed move beside her. Cynthia was there, tears running down her cheeks. Cynthia buried her face into Alice's bony chest, searching for comfort that their mother and father could not give.

"I asked them to let me go with you," Cynthia said once her sobs had stopped, her face still pressed against Alice, listening to the beat of her heart. "I asked them to send me there too, but they refused. They told me that you were a bad influence."

Alice lightly stroked Cynthia's back, her heart torn in two. "I am a bad influence." She whispered. "But I'm better than they are."

Cynthia sniffled, "What do you mean?"

Alice sighed, her eyes finally filling with tears. "You'll see." Alice said, just as their mother came into the room, glowing as only someone who doesn't see anyone but themselves can.

"Wake up Mary!" She shrieked joyously, whipping open the curtains dramatically, not realizing that the overhead lights were already on. She twirled around, to see Alice and Cynthia on the bed. "Cynthia, what are you doing here?" She frowned.

Alice sat up, pulling Cynthia with her, both wiping at their eyes. Cynthia's black hair was in knotted pigtails, and her face was blotchy with crying, and Alice had leftover eyeliner from the day before smeared down her cheeks, but their mom didn't notice.

"Everyone get ready!" She chirped, already thinking about what outfit she would be wearing. "The jet is leaving in an hour and a half!" She left the room humming to herself as her daughters held back their tears.

Cynthia looked up at Alice with wide, liquid blue eyes. "She didn't notice your hair." She whispered and Alice nodded.

They both stood up. "Will you pick out my clothes today, Alice?" Cynthia asked, as she asked every morning. Usually Alice said no, but today she didn't.

"Okay," she said, walking to her closet, 'You can borrow my clothes if you want." Cynthia's face lit up, making Alice's heart feel less damaged. Cynthia ran in front, and opened the closet as if opening a buried treasure. She skimmed her small fingers across the clothes, as good as new.

Alice had a burst of kindness, and said "You can use them while I'm gone. In fact, you can use all of the things I own while I'm gone." Cynthia looked up at her with awe, making Alice feel uncomfortable. "As long as you're careful," she clarified, and Cynthia nodded quickly.

Alice picked out denim bermuda shorts, with a peach hippie shirt, and white gladiator sandals. Cynthia put them on quickly, as Alice grabbed her tartan dress from her new and improved school uniforms. She had altered it, making the skirt full, and taking off the sleeves, and adding a deep neckline, and a black sash.

Cynthia twirled endearingly in front of Alice's gilded mirror, her hair still in disastrous pigtails, until she saw Alice. "Oh!" she exclaimed, looking at her older sister with admiration and sadness.

Before anything else could be said, their mother flew in again, chattering nonstop.

"Girls! We have to go in fifteen minutes to make it to the airport on time! I'll send the butler up to grab your bags Mary! Oh, Cynthia, you look adorable! Mary, what the hell are you wearing?! Well, I have to go! Make sure to brush your teeth! And Mary, please brush your hair, it's atrocious! Breakfast is on the table!"

Out of breath, their mother twirled out of the room. Alice ran her fingers through her hair, messing it up on purpose, a silent defiance. Cynthia stood awkwardly, swaying on her thin legs.

"I suppose we should go," Alice suggested, and Cynthia's eyes welled up with tears again, wrapping her long arms around Alice's middle.

"Do you have to go?" Cynthia asked, as the butler entered the room. He watched the floor the entire time, not wanting to interfere. He grabbed the bags, and left, his eyes never leaving his feet. The only reason he had worked for them for so long was because he learned to keep his mouth shut, and only see what he was supposed to see.

"Yes," Alice whispered. She peeled Cynthia from her, and held her hand as they walked down the stairs.

Alice and Cynthia held hands then entire ride to the airport, and as they waited for Alice's bags to be put on their father's jet. Cynthia walked into the jet with Alice, refusing to leave. Their father scooped her up, her screams not affecting him, and the entire family waited outside as the plane got ready to leave.

The last thing Alice saw was her father talking on his phone to someone, cupping his hand around the receiver, as to not share the information being shared, her mother standing there, sniffing attractively, wiping imaginary tears from her immaculate cheeks, and Cynthia, who had thrown herself to the ground in her wretchedness, wrecking the clothes Alice had lent her.

A/N: Okay, so I don't know who's POV I'm doing next. Tell me who you want in your review! And also, I have a blog , which I am going to pimp :D It's slightly random, and then I have another one which is like, morbid poetry. But the first one's better. And my story School Projects has been nominated for the best All Human for the Twilighter Awards ! Vote for me :) (Links on profile)


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Yeah, it took me forever to update, I know, I fail. School Projects should be updated next, but probably after Christmas. Edward was written to No Doubt, which is totally random, so listen to whatever you like :)

**Finding Freedom: Chapter 2**

A bronze-haired boy sat behind a desk in a room filled with books, looking young in comparison to the antiques surrounding him. In his hand he held a white envelope, cut open so perfectly, he could have resealed it, and nobody would have known he had seen it. But the contents had shocked him, and instead of putting it back with the rest of the mail he had gone through, he kept it, hiding it, for weeks on end.

His father, the only person he cared about in the world, although he would never admit that he cared about anyone, he pretended he was above emotions, had been getting steadily more depressed and anxious during those two weeks. Edward had a tough decision to make; save his father from his depression, and give up his own desires, or be very selfish indeed.

Edward had chosen what he believed to be morally right, but he wasn't planning on going down without a fight. He had given his father the chance, but he wasn't going to give him more than that.

The clock struck half ten, and Edward tensed, his features rearranging themselves into a mask of anger, and within seconds, he was as filled with rage as his expression showed. The front door swung open, and Edward narrowed his dark green eyes, looking forward to the ensuing argument.

His adoptive father came into the study, trudging wearily, as if he hadn't slept properly in a decade. Which was true. Edward had been living with him for near ten years, and all the stress that put him under disallowed him to sleep like he used to.

"Carlisle, what the fuck is this?" Edward asked angrily, his tone low and dangerous. Carlisle lifted up his eyes to notice the envelope clutched in his hand.

"I have no idea, Edward." Carlisle said exhaustedly, "What is it?"

Edward tossed it to him, it bouncing off Carlisle's chest and landing on the floor in front of him. "Check for yourself."

Carlisle bent over, and grabbed the envelope. When he saw the return address, a ghost of a smile graced his lips. He flipped it open to the back, and started to pull the letter out.

"Dr. Carlisle Cullen, the Dragos Nistor Boarding School is pleased to accept your application as the school doctor…" Edward quoted.

Carlisle pulled the letter open, unfolding the paper hastily, to read that Edward was correct. He had been hired. Carlisle's money worries started to fade away, and his mind started calculating the next steps.

"Really, Carlisle?" Edward accused, instantly shattering through Carlisle's rushed thoughts. "Transylvania?" He asked, and then leaned back in Carlisle's chair, crossing his arms over his chest.

Carlisle sighed, sitting down on the hard backed chair in facing the desk. Edward lifted his leg up, and placed it on the old desk Carlisle prided as one of his best antiques, and plopped his other leg on top, his movements venomous. Carlisle looked strained, but pulled his eyes from the scuff marks Edward's sneakers were going to make.

"It's a good school," Carlisle began softly.

"Transylvania." Edward repeated, glaring at Carlisle. "We're going to go to a school in Transylvania. Don't you know there are vampires there?" Edward asked Carlisle, mock shivering. "Scary stuff."

"Edward, it's a good job, and if I work there, you can attend for free. We won't have to struggle like we do now. We could finally be comfortable."

"I refuse to believe this is the only job you can get." Edward said, pulling his feet back to the ground, knocking over a stack of paper.

Carlisle sighed. "It's the only place that's hired me. There are no others, and I can't make my savings take us much further. I've been looking for work for weeks, and there's no place open. And I've looked for schools for you to attend to next year, but once they see your record, nobody's willing to allow you in."

"My marks are perfect." Edward protested, his eyebrows pulling up in the middle.

"Not your marks, Edward." Carlisle said.

"Oh."

"The things you do, Edward, they're permanent. At this school, don't screw it up."

Edward said nothing, not promising to agree. He could do it better this time, not getting caught. The only reason he was ever in trouble was because he was caught.

Carlisle saw it on his face; the acceptance. Edward was already thinking of the move as something that was going to happen, no matter what. He was already planning how to be there. Carlisle knew that all he had to do now was to not show Edward that Carlisle had won. If Edward figured out he had lost, he would make this even harder than it had to be.

"When do we have to go?" Edward sighed dramatically.

Carlisle smiled, and then read the letter again. His blue eyes widened. "We have to be there tomorrow…" He was stunned.

Edward smiled. "We better go pack then."

Carlisle shook his head sadly. "No, I had to phone them two weeks ago, I never had the letter."

Edward smiled, turning away as he walked out of the room, "Don't worry, Carlisle. That's taken care of. And do I really have to wear the uniform they sent me last week?"

Carlisle gaped at Edwards retreating form, and then hurried after him. "You phoned them?"

Edward nodded. Carlisle's worried frown eased, until he laughed.

"And the uniform is horrible?" Carlisle asked joyously. Edward wrinkled his nose at him.

"It's terrible." Carlisle laughed again. "But you should see what they sent for you to wear."

Carlisle's grin dripped off his face, leaving him with an expression of mild horror.

It was Edward's turn to laugh, and he did so, as he walked into his room in the run down rancher they lived in. He closed the door behind him, and then placed his desk chair under the doorknob to keep Carlisle out.

He reached under his bed, and pulled off the screwdriver he had taped under there. Then he moved a pile of laundry off the wood paneled floor.

He stuck the screwdriver in the edge of one of the boards, and pried his secret compartment open. Underneath was a narrow but quite deep hole in the sandy dirt their cheap house was built on. Edward pulled out the plastic wrapped uniforms, the navy and white so offensive, that he had immediately dyed the entire wardrobe black. A first step towards his probable expulsion.

He grabbed a worn canvas duffel bag from the back of his closet, and shoved the clothes in, pulling out a pair of black slacks, and the black polo shirt for the journey. He grabbed his favorite pair of pajamas, a matching rocket-ship printed flannel outfit. If he was boarding alone, he could wear it. If he had to, God forbid, room with someone else, he would just sleep in his boxers, exposing his carefully constructed six-pack and his long legs, for as long as the roomie lasted.

He grabbed socks and boxers, and some ivory colored soap, as well as his favorite cologne. He went through his closet, pulling out three black t-shirts, two from concerts he had gone to, one from a discount store and all three with tiny holes at the hem where some acid had burned through. All of Edwards clothes had holes like that in them, and many people who noticed thought he must be some sort of chemist. Which may be true in one sense.

He pulled a pair of worn jeans and shoved it into the bag as well.

Then he went back to the hole in the ground, and reached in, pulling out small plastic bags with powder inside, and some tin cans and bottles. He placed them in his duffel bag, and reached in to grab the expensive things. A very small blowtorch. A saw that could cut through steel. A very small amount of brown metal. One by one he put in the bag. He pulled out a large case of matches, and put it in the stuffed full duffel bag as well.

He replaced the board over the hole, and threw his screwdriver in the bag with his other tools. He zipped it up, and slung it over his shoulder. He walked out the front door to see that the truck he had hired to bring their furniture to a storage garage he had hired.

"Grab everything," Edward said to the movers, jerking his hand back to the house. They went in, just as Carlisle scurried out.

"Edward, what's going on?" Carlisle asked hurriedly, clutching the plastic wrapped maroon and navy doctor's outfit, which Edward had left on his bed, along with a suitcase filled with his lab equipment, and a duffel bag filled with all the clothes Carlisle had that Edward approved of. He had burned all the bow ties.

"The movers are taking the furniture to a storage unit in town, you should go with them and make sure they don't dent the antiques. I'll meet you there in an hour, and we can go to the airport." Edward said, his eyes still focused on the house, his expression calculating.

Carlisle opened and closed his mouth a few times in Edwards's peripheral vision. Finally he shook his head. "When does the plane leave?" He asked, resigned.

Edward checked his watch. "At nine. We have three hours still." Carlisle stood beside him, staring at Edward with an expression of incredulity.

The movers were dragging a dresser down the front steps, the short one with the cigar dropping his end, a sickening thud echoing down the stairs where the end of the dresser had stuck the cement.

Curse words fell from the dirty movers mouths as they banged the dresser more, trying to get it down the stairs.

Carlisle looked at them with wide eyes, frozen in horror. Edward clapped him on the back. "Go help them," he said.

Without a word, Carlisle ran after the movers, attempting to politely explain that these were to be treated nicely.

Once the house was empty, about fifteen minutes later, the overloaded moving truck drove down the deserted road, towards the hick filled town, which consisted of only weaponry shops, drug stores, liquor stores where they never checked ID, and narrow minded, unaccepting folks, who had never accepted the struggling doctor and his trouble making teenage son.

Edward spat on the dirt road. He had Googled pictures of Transylvania, and the colors of the area had been the reason he had decided ahead of time to let Carlisle win. It was so green there, in the photos he had seen. Nothing like this barren, dusty world he had been living in for nearly a year, and nothing like the other concrete and glass cities he had lived in though his life.

Edward walked back into the house, walking through every empty room, his disdain ever growing. He thought of the owner of the house, a fat and rude man with spurs on his boots, and a cowboy hat atop his greasy hair and grizzled face. He had nearly evicted them three times in the ten months they lived there. Carlisle had to beg for extra days to meet the payments, and seeing him grovel to a man so obviously beneath him had made Edward sick as he listened from behind the door.

Edward left the front door, and walked to the garage, his fists clenched, and he slid behind the seat of Carlisle's faded black car, with a missing tail light. He started it up, and drove a distance away, until the house was small enough that he could hold it in his palm.

He stopped the car. The hatred for the man who made them pay so much for the honor of staying in his tiny, cramped house built up inside him. Edward stalked over to the house, his steps heavier than normal, his pulse quickening, his breathing shallow.

He went back in to the garage, and grabbed the red tank of gasoline that had been sitting in the work bench. Edward walked back to the house, and started in the kitchen, pouring the gasoline on the counter and over the fridge, in the burners of the stove. He trailed it on the floor splashing it over the dining room curtains, and in the living room carpet, throwing big waves of it in the bedrooms and bathrooms. He trailed a thin stream out the front door, and down the steps, taking it as close to the car as he dared. He threw the empty gasoline tank at the house, cracking a window. He laughed,

Edward felt around in his pocket for a match, finding a couple packages. He lit one, dropping it on the gasoline. Instantly, it went up in flames.

Edward jogged over to the car, by the time he had made it, the flame had already spread into the house. He started the engine, and sped away, towards the city, the scent of fire following him.

Edward switched on the radio, a country song blasting through the car. Edward laughed, he never usually listened to country, but it fit with his mood right now, the elation that always followed after some destruction.

He sang along, beating his hands against the steering wheel as he drove down the street, passing the detested town, until he pulled into the storage units, the two movers with their mustaches and stained jeans trying to each move crystal lamps with excessive care, their faces screwed up as they took small careful steps.

Carlisle was inside the storage unit, his usual carefully kept hair standing on end, as he fretted madly over the antiques. Edward watched his father carefully, the remaining grin left from the country music fading from his face. He opened the door, and stuck his head out.

"Almost done in there?" Edward called out, and the movers glanced at him exhaustedly. Carlisle looked up momentarily.

"We can leave in just a minute, I have to get the key from the supervisor." He walked to the office, patting down his hair. The movers closed the van, and drove away. Edward nervously twitched the windshield wipers on and off, glancing around him.

Carlisle opened the trunk, throwing in their suitcases, before opening the passengers side door, sliding in. "To the airport!" Carlisle said, excitement overriding the anxiety for a moment.

Edward grinned at him crookedly, and then started the car, feeling more secure now that they were on the move, escaping. Still, he thought as he switched the radio back on, he would feel safer once they got through customs.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Emmett

Yes, I said it would be like, a month ago. But I promised that BCC (ie: before computer crash). And uni sucks. And, oddly, this chapter was written while I was listening to: wizard rock, poker tournaments, a washing machine, bad crime shows, good crime shows, massage chairs, whining dogs, Lara Croft video games and Fauxliage. So, you can listen to your own music :) I'm being really badass, you can listen to badass music and pretend that this chapter is less lame than it actually is.

And lizz, anonymous reviewer, this is as quick as I could manage :)

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Emmett leaned against the locker doors, in the deserted hallways. It was a Saturday, and although the school was opened for students to use the library and computer lab, most of his classmates preferred to spend their weekends doing more important things, sleeping, eating, drinking cheap beer and trying to sleep with whomever was willing. But not Emmett. He was beyond that lifestyle, he thought, proud of himself. No one could ever call him ordinary.

He whistled two notes, one high, one low, and tapped the locker once. He heard some scuffling from the bathroom nearby, and then a scrawny kid came out, tall and gangly with glasses.

"Hey dude," Emmett said greeting him. The kid walked up, his hands crammed into his pockets. He nodded at Emmett.

"'Sup?" He said.

"Kyle?" Emmett asked, his hand resting on the combination lock for the locker behind him.

"Yeah." The kid nodded, his glasses bobbing up and down.

Emmett opened the locker door, and pulled out a ziplock baggy, half full of something at looked like an unattractive potpourri. The kid's mouth dropped open.

"I've also got some harder stuff if you like," Emmett said, turning back to the locker to grab a smaller bag, with a little bit of expensive white powder. He chuckled to himself. "And I thought you hall monitors were uptight."

He turned around, to see a stapler pointed towards his face. "Drop that crack!" Kyle yelled, his glasses nearly falling off his skinny nose.

"It's not crack, you dork." Emmett said, "It's coke. There's a difference."

The kid clicked the stapler a couple times, little sharp staples flying out, hitting Emmett on the nose. "Ooh, fuck, that stings." Emmett said, momentarily blinded.

"Mr Wrigley, come quick! I've got him!" Kyle shrieked, clicking another round of staples out at Emmett.

Shit. The vice principal. Emmett turned behind him, grabbing the bags and shoving them in his pockets. He could hear the clumsy footsteps as the vice principal hurled himself down the adjoining hallway, tripping over his ridiculous size thirteens.

"Gotta go, Kyle," Emmett said, before bolting to the emergency exit, dodging staples as they flew in his general direction. He stopped as he opened the door, the alarm screaming.

"Watch it kid," he said, "You could poke someone's eye out with that." Then he ran, out and away, into the adjoining woods, and as far into them as he could manage.

He could no longer hear the alarm when he stopped, panting for air. He tried to think about how he was going to get away with this one. He was probably expelled if there was any security footage, or if the vice principal had managed to see his face, or hell, any part of him. There weren't many people his size in a school this small.

But expulsion wasn't the least of his concerns. He couldn't get arrested this early in his career. He had a life to live, money to make, and jail wasn't something that fit into the future he wanted.

First thing to do, he though, was to get rid of the evidence. He looked at the bags he had, in his hands and shoved into his coat pockets.

He threw them all onto the ground, everything, even the rolling papers and his own personal stash. He never left them at home, the General would have sniffed them out immediately. He dug into his pockets again, finding a couple condoms before pulling out what he really wanted. His lighter.

He lit the pile on fire, lighting it at different points so it would burn evenly. He stepped back, and started to watch it burn, before the familiar smell filtered through his nose. He had about 500 bucks in there, he noted sadly.

He watched it burn for a few more seconds, before pulling out his phone. He scrolled down to the name he was looking for, having to look through hundreds of names before he found it.

She picked up after just one ring.

"Hello!" She said in her chirpy voice, the sound of other girls giggling her background.

"Hey, Sarah, it's me, Emmett."

"Douchebag." She said.

"Don't hang up," he asked quickly.

"Give me one good reason."

"There's a party, right now, in the woods, just by that waterfall we went to last weekend." His voice dropped, low and seductive.

"It's only four thirty." She said, her voice fluttering.

"So? Get here quick. And tell everyone."

"Everyone?" She asked sceptically.

"Everyone."

At 8:30 am the next morning, Emmett sat next to his mother and father, in the office of the high school, his eyes bloodshot and his clothes rumpled, smelling much of smoke, vomit and rum.

The receptionist came into the room, clacking on her heeled Mary Janes, bringing in the strong scent of cheap perfume. "The principal and vice principal will see you now."

His parents stood stiffly, and walked by her, into the offices. Emmett got up lazily, and followed after them, winking at the aging secretary as he walked by, causing her to titter, and blush.

The principal was waiting for then, a warm smile on her usual harsh face. "Mrs McCartney," she said as she shook his mother's hand. "General," She said, offering her hand. He slowly took it, and shook it once, before shaking hands with the silent, and possibly shameful vice principal.

They settled down in their seats, no one paying attention to Emmett at all, as he sat in a third chair, a fold up one they used in assemblies, as this parents sat in leather armchairs. He rocked back and forwardth on it, creating squeaky sounds, which, in his opinion, were quite enjoyable.

"So, Ms Ternish, let's get down to business, why are we here on this fine morning?" The General asked, leaning forward in his armchair.

"Well, I'm afraid we have some unpleasant business to discuss. It appears that your son may have been dealing drugs within our school."

"Prove it." Emmett said, ceasing to rock on the chair. "You ain't got no evidence. You can't prove anything." He said haphazardly.

"Emmett, darling, please." His mother said, reaching her hand out for his.

"Is it true?" His dad asked quietly. "Do you not have any proof that Emmett has done anything wrong?"

The principal hesitated. "We have witnesses, but nothing to really penalize him with."

His dad leaned back in the chair. "Then what's the problem? If you cannot prove he has done anything wrong, then there's no reason for us to be here."

"Damn straight!" Emmett said, and started leaning from side to side, making the chair squeak again.

They all looked at him for a moment, before going back to their discussion.

"I'm afraid I cannot allow someone who has been accused by multiple students to be dealing illegal substances in my school, to remain here." She said, her voice getting higher and higher.

"Ahem." The vice principal said, tapping her on the arm.

"I mean, _our_ school."

"What are you saying," The General asked. "Are you expelling him?"

"I'm afraid so." She said.

Emmett's mother let out a small shriek.

"Bummer," Emmett said.

The principal took out a pamphlet. "These schools are more personalized; ones that will help him recover from any difficulties he may be having."

His parents graciously took them, flipping through the multi coloured pimp papers. "I like that one," Emmett said, pointing at one of a stone castle, and a fancy name.

His father pulled that one out, and flipped it open reading what it said.

"You would say that these are fine educational institutes?" The General said slowly.

Ms Ternish smiled, grateful that this was going smoothly. "Yes, they are all the finest quality of schools, and I believe it would especially help Emmett, and be very beneficial."

"Oh, but darling, that one is a boarding school," Emmett's mother said.

Emmett leaned forward and grabbed the wastebucket from beside her desk, and vomited into it. The vice principal gagged.

"Oh, sweetie." His mother said, getting up to rub small circles on his back, and held her cold hand on his sweaty forehead.

"When can we get the paperwork?" The General asked.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four  
Jasper POV  
Song- "Worlds on Fire" by The Butterfly Effect  
P.S. This might be a bit, um, emo. Well, each chapter gets the tone of the person, and Jasper is slightly sad, tortured. But don't worry, this is not an angsty story, it's just Jasper, and who knows, maybe he'll meet someone who makes him happier, it could happen :D And anonymous reviews, love you. But I really wish I could reply, so make an account! Haha :)  
P.P.S. Not mine, it's Steph's.

Oh, the sky. The colors, the mingling of the orange fire and dark, cold empty blue, the dark edge of violet, the emotionless black. It was the most beautiful, most tragic, least important thing Jasper had ever seen. The longer he watched it, the emptier it became, losing its life, slowly fading away. He could stare forever and it would never become light again, not for his eyes. It would shiver and hide, stealing the light and the colors, soon the words and the music and the smell of the desert dust and his mother's annual chocolate pumpkin cookies. The night could take away the meaning, take away the emotions, take away every good part of life. But it could also, finally, take away the pain.

"Jasper?" His mother called timidly from downstairs. He made no move from his window, watching the sun set. He wondered how many people saw this as pretty.

He heard the creak of the stairs as she walked back down, to the kitchen where they played the charade of a happy family, only missing one part, just one teeny tiny part. There was the mother, the son, the happy, golden collared mutt. Only missing one part, the smallest part imaginable, hardly noticeable, and hardly mentionable.

The sky was leeching away the colors of the desert outside his window. The red and yellow of the flowers, the brown, the blue, the dusty green. All fading to hardly noticeable, hardly mentionable, grey. As grey as ash, as a mourning dove.

The scars were healing, the car was fixed, the headstone weathered, but where it mattered, where you could really see it, it was as fresh and new as if it was yesterday. The squeal of the tires, the flash of the headlights, it happened every night, it happened every day, it happened every time he closed his eyes. The splinter of glass, the screams, the hollow feeling, the nausea, the disbelief. It was never ending, it was always, and it was nearly inescapable.

He absently rubbed at the scar down his left arm, the one that had almost killed him, that should have killed him. He could hear the sound of microwave popcorn, the unsteady popping, the chaos.

The sky was fading, so quickly this time, so quickly, as if it was tired of its audience, as if it was giving up, wanting to be over, done with. He pressed one hand against the cold glass, holding onto the last minutes of the light. He wondered how many people saw this as romantic. It was death, he wanted to scream at them. It was death's cold breath, his last wintery laugh, taunting, teasing, flaunting. The gory passion, the struggle of light and dark, the chaotic, incomplete dance, climaxing with the sudden realization that it was over, that the darkness had won, that all life had be extinguished.

He wondered how many people were fucking in the dark, the fading light filling them with the belief that their intentions were pure, that their touch was real, that the hot breath and swollen lips were symbols of love, groaning and moving with an animalistic need to reach their own satisfaction, whispering words under the red, aching sky, thinking of forever and beyond, and what they should say, how they should say it, thinking of selfish love when the world was dying, falling to destruction all around them. The fucking ignoramuses. Can't they see that there is no tomorrow, that there is no such thing as yesterday, that the past and future is one big hoax, just a conspiracy, nothing real, nothing measurable. It's all the same day, the same stupid, fucking day.

He broke away from the window, the sky darkened, lost and dead.

He walked around his room, the empty ache familiar as he paced his small bedroom, the same as when he was fifteen, ten, and two. His long legs were cramped, they didn't fit as when he was younger and content. He was old, older than the world itself, older than his mother, older than me, older than you. He was taller than the roof, he could walk stand up at touch the sky, the part where everyone looks, all the children try to jump to, the gravity and their parents concerns weighing them down, only rising a few inches, while looking desperately at the edge of the sky, just above the perfect clouds, little short fingers, sticky with juice, reaching out, to grasp a corner of the ribbon of blue.

The door was closed, so he opened it, and walked into the bathroom next door, which was nearly as empty as his bedroom, lacking in personal items other than a red transparent plastic toothbrush and a plaid robe to stand out from the beige. Jasper saw himself in the mirror for the first time in a while. He was shocked. The face that stared out at him from the dark had the same impossibly light blue eyes that his father had shared with him, the same summery blond hair. But there was a shadow across his face, bruises under his eyes, cheekbones prominent, the bone white scar running across his cheek scratched at and bleeding. His wide, dark lips were cracked, and his hair much longer than he had thought, tangled, with strands of what once had been silky hair reaching chin length, blending it with golden fuzz darkening his jaw.

He pulled absently at the matted hair, wondering when he had last gotten his hair cut. He couldn't remember. He couldn't think of a single time when he had ever gotten a haircut, even though it must have happened, at least once in his life. He sighed, and broke away from his ghostly reflection, to walk back across the small landing that constituted the fourth floor in their ridiculously large house. It was the smallest part of the house, with only three rooms, and a strip of thick champagne carpet connecting them. It was the only part of the house where Jasper felt less pretentious.

But his feet took him away from his sanctuary, and down the weaving staircase, through the elaborate third floor and down to the second, the first floor underground, with only a stainless steel kitchen and a few bedrooms for the help.

His mother was in the family room, which was both hers and Jasper's favourite room in the house, with a large, but average, television, and a red sectional couch, the rest of the room filled with the tacky decorations that Jasper's grandmother would never have allowed in the rest of their gold and beige house.

When she saw him standing in the doorway, Jasper's mother had to fight back a grin. "Oh, honey," She said, her words fading away. He came, and sat down awkwardly on the furthest edge of the couch, his legs stretched out, too long.

In silence they both looked up to the screen, a hospital drama playing. Jasper watched, restless, the blood and the sterilized white making him feel sick, feverish, too warm. There was glass in his head, and one big slice of glass protruding from the victims chest as he made soft gurgling noises, trying to breath as they rushed him through the hallways, blood staining their hands, the blankets, the air itself. He could smell it, mingled in with the buttery popcorn his mother was eating from a wooden bowl. He could smell the metallic scent of the blood, taste it in the back of his throat, mixed with the salt of tears, drowning, trapped.

He stood up, his legs shaking. He tried to leave the room, but the sound of the man's breathing, catching in his throat, blood filling up his lungs, they've been punctured, not just one, but two, they're leaking the air he needs to breath, filling up with blood, scarlet and deadly. He's going to die, there's nothing more we can do, it's too late, it's the end, it's over, he's gone, time of death, 3:43pm, just after school, just driving his son home, just driving him from school, he's dead, say goodbye, you're lucky to have survived, you could have died, we patched you up, his injuries were worse, there was nothing we could do, just wait and watch as his lungs filled up with fucking blood, watching him drown in his own fucking blood in front of his own fucking son, his own fucking fourteen year old son, the light of his life, the reason he was there, he's dead, the reason he's dead, gone, goodbye. Say goodbye to your dad.

Jasper knocked over a table, a table lamp crashing down, the splinter of glass, it cut him, he was bleeding on the carpet, and everyone knows that blood stains never fade away, blood stains never go away, hard to wash out, harder to forget.

His mother gasped, raising up, grabbing a sweater, wrapping it around his hand, the blood soaking through, the white cotton, so like the sheets on the television, stained with burgundy, scarlet, crimson, red, blood.

The man was dying, the man was dead, they watched as he slipped away, the machines telling them that his heart had stopped, there were no machines for his dad, no machines, just guessing, they just guessed he was dead, but he couldn't be dead, he was pale, smeared in blood, his chest cut open, his clothes ripped, he wasn't bleeding anymore.

Jasper grimaced, the pain from his arm better than the pain in his heart, he took the destroyed sweater from his mother, wrapping it around the cuts, deeper than one would think, but not too deep, not deep enough to die, not even close, he knew those kind of cuts, he knew just how deep you could go. He squeezed his arm, digging his fingers into the shallow cut, his knuckles white.

"Stop!" His mom shrieked, worried, overreacting, what's a little pain, what harm can it do? He loosened his grip, blood coming out again, faster, but it's just a little blood, you should see how much blood a person can lose before it's dangerous, you should see how much blood a person can lose, how much can drain out freely, without any effort at all.

He tried to turn to his mom to tell her that it's alright, that he's alright, but she's already got a phone in her hand, she's already dialled, she's calling them, the people that helped him kill his dad.

"No, no no. I'm fine, I'm totally fine." Jasper tried to say, smiling, his dry lips cracking, bleeding. His eyes were blurry. "I'm fine, Mom."

But she just looked frightened, giving them their address, telling them their name, explaining that they were important, and if they knew what was good for them, they'd come right away.

Jasper felt woozy, and very small. His mother was towering over him, and he couldn't figure out why. Everything was bigger, everything looking down at him, waiting for him to die, but he wasn't going to die. He laughed bitterly, everything swimming in and out of focus, getting lighter and darker. He wasn't bleeding nearly enough. He was sitting on the ground, but he couldn't remember sitting down. He couldn't figure out how he could sit on the ground, he was so light, so empty that he floated, he never sat like this, heavy, sinking into the floor, wanting to go deeper, to fall right down to the centre of the earth, right down where it would burn him up, turn him to ashes, turn him to dust.

His mom watched him, her eyes scared, her carefully picked out clothes seeming out of place, on this tiny, sad eyed, scared woman, running her hands through her hair, hiding tears, watching, watching him, wondering, they all wonder.

This is so dumb, he wasn't going to die. All this scared faces, and pacing, he was fine, he needed what, five stitches, maybe more, but not much, he'd be fine, it would just be another scar, another secret. This was all so fucking dumb.

The ambulance was there, it was taking him away, they had to get two people to carry him, he was surprised it wasn't more, he was so heavy, he was so small and heavy and tired, so tired. They put him on a gurney, wheeled him out under the cover of the sky, across the stones, the path that he always thought led towards the house, but now he understood, now he saw, it led away from his house, it was an exit, not an entrance.

They tried to make him breathe from a plastic thing, but he was fine, he wasn't going to die. Everyone overreacting, had none of them ever seen someone die before, had none of them ever seen the amount of torture a person can go through before dying, the blood, every drop life and death, the biggest questions wrapped into one single particle, and nothing to answer it.

The world went away slowly, and painfully, pulling itself from his skin, his hair, his veins and muscles.

When he woke up, there was considerably less pain. Which seemed like a good thing at first, but when his eyes opened, to see the white walls and the IV drip and the machines all in a line, watching him, contemplating him, he wished it was back.

His mother was there, her dark blond hair falling in front of her glass green eyes, with little tiny lines around them, as they watched him, carefully. The pain was evident on her face, she didn't like it here either, she wanted to leave as much as he did.

He opened his mouth to apologize, to tell her that it wasn't her fault, that he was fine, that they'd be fine. He never noticed the pain on her face before, but now he saw it, he saw his own face reflected in hers.

The door opened, and a woman came through, with silver hair twisted up in tight bun, her face smooth, without any of the wrinkles one would expect, smooth and youthful, with a hint of steel in her eyes.

"Oh good, he's awake." She said, floating through the room ethereally. taking her place in an arm chair beside his mother.

"Marianne," His mother said, reaching out towards the woman before taking her hand back. "You didn't have to come, he's fine, we're fine."

"Nonsense, when I heard that my grandson was in the hospital, I had no choice, I had to be here, otherwise what would the others think?"

Ah, those omnipresent others, the ones that Jasper's grandmother constantly worried about, what would the others think, would they judge?

"Now, seeing as there is a story out there that Jasper did this to himself on purpose," she said, gesturing to the white gauze covering the stitches holding his wrist together, "we're going to have to do something, to keep him out of the public eye, I mean, we can't have people talking about a mentally disturbed relative of mine, it would destroy the family reputation."

Jasper lay back down on his white bed, not wanting to listen anymore. Mentally disturbed. I'm fine, I'm totally fine. What is wrong with her, with her facelifts and personal trainers, she's sixty seven fucking years old, she should know how to act her age. If only she liked baking and gardening, and actually knew what love meant. She's the one who's mentally disturbed, she's fucking insane, especially if she expects him to hide in his bedroom for three months until it all blows over, until the stitches are gone and the scar just a line.

"I was thinking of maybe getting Jasper a therapist, you know, someone he could talk to." His mother said, unsure, timid.

"A therapist? What would he even talk about?" Marianne said with a short bark of a laugh.

His mother just stared at her for a moment, "His father."

"His father? Why would he even need to talk about him, it was ages ago, it's been almost three years, no one cares about him anymore, they've all forgotten."

Jasper stared at the ceiling. It was cracked, broken.

"I haven't forgotten." His mother said, softly, echoing his thoughts.

"That's not what I mean," His grandmother said with a wave of her hand. "I was thinking, that as it's nearing the next school year, he could attend a different school, one where he could recuperate away from the public eye. It would be good for him, and for us."

"You want to send him away?" His mother said, her eyes round, fearful.

"I already have the paperwork done, you don't have to worry your pretty little head about it. It will all be fine, helpful even. He'll come back a new man, you'll see, he just needs to spend time away from the past, so he can focus on the future. It will be a good experience for you both."

It was silence for a moment, and then he heard his mother nod her head.

"Fine, I'm sure you're right Marianne." She said softly, sadly.

Jasper continued to stare at the ceiling, wondering why he wasn't as sad as he thought he would be. He wasn't dumb enough to think this would be a new start, he wasn't naive enough, optimistic enough. Maybe he was really dead, he pondered emotionlessly. Maybe he was dead where it counted, right where it hurts the most. Maybe it's the morphine or maybe he's given up. Maybe he's just confused.

The world slipped away, every unfair, meaningless particle, until it was only black, hot and dark. Maybe he was alive, but he just hadn't realized it yet.


End file.
